Barely Breathing
by Venulia
Summary: *CHAPTER 10 IS UP...early!* Is this the beginning? V/S. POV. Please R/R.
1. First Names

Barely Breathing  
  
First Names  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: basic stuff  
  
Pairing: some V/S  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
I pull up to the warehouse. It looks abandoned, but I know better than that. The ignition goes off, and I push open the door of my roomy SUV. A glance around reveals no one in sight. Good.  
  
The air is chilly; the sky is overcast. Francie says it's supposed to rain this afternoon. I don't know. The last time she said it was going to rain, there was no rain for two weeks. But this time I think she just may be right. Rain. I could use some rain.  
  
The weather reflects my current mood perfectly. There's so much built up inside me that I feel like bursting, but I know I can't. I have to hold it together. I've been doing this for seven years; I know how to handle situations like this.  
  
Right. That's a lie. Straight out. I should really start being honest with myself, of all people. The truth is I have absolutely no idea how to handle this particular situation. No clue whatsoever. Nada.  
  
Someone is waiting for me inside the deserted building, someone I don't know well at all. Someone I'm not supposed to care to know about. And I tell myself I don't. But that's a lie, and I know it. His name is Michael, or Vaughn, as I call him. Sometimes I wonder why I don't call him by his first name. I mean, after all, he calls me Sydney. Francie would call it denial. She doesn't know how right she is. Calling him Michael would personalize the situation. My being professional would fly out the window. Somehow the name Vaughn is a constant reminder of the nature of this so-called relationship I have with him. Agent and handler is what it is called. Nothing more. Agent and handler is safe.  
  
--  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
I hear her first as she enters the building. The creak of the door as it opens, then the click as it locks back into place. I used to mentally prepare myself for the sight of her. I don't do that anymore because I know my efforts are futile. I am never quite prepared for the sight of Sydney rounding the corner, of her long limbs swinging in a rhythm that I find unbearably seductive, of her smooth lips turned up in smile just for me, or of her luminous brown eyes that warm me with a glance. All I ever do now is try not to stare, for too long.  
  
This particular meeting is no exception. She has on a loose green sweater and black slacks that hug her hips. Her hair is caught in a high ponytail at the back of her head. She looks at ease and there is a slight redness in her cheeks.  
  
"Hi," she breathes, and I shudder involuntarily. She has no idea what that breathy voice of hers does to me, to my emotions.  
  
"Hey," I say, "how did the mission go?"  
  
"Great, no glitches, considering I had no counter-mission." She smiles for an instant, and her twin dimples wink at me. My stomach does a flip-flop. I look away and clear my throat.  
  
"Well, the next mission SD-6 has you on is a relatively routine job," I say, trying to make my voice firm and professional.  
  
She shoots me a wry grin. I arch an eyebrow in return.  
  
"Maybe not exactly routine, but it isn't anything you haven't done before," I reply, rushing to explain myself. "It's essentially data gathering so, as usual, the CIA gets a copy of the information."  
  
She nods. "Okay," she says, getting up to leave. "I'll see you when I get back?"  
  
It's a rhetorical question, but I answer it anyway. "Yeah, Monday."  
  
She gives me one last smile and heads toward the exit. I feel all the feelings I tried to suppress during the meeting bubble to the surface. On an impulse, I call out. "Sydney…wait."  
  
She turns to meet my eyes, but I look away immediately, afraid she can see the naked want in them.  
  
"Yes, Vaughn?" she says in a raspy voice, like she's slightly out of breath, only she hasn't been running. I wonder why she never calls me by my first name. It's not like she doesn't know what it is. Inwardly, I am already berating myself for my temporary lapse in judgment. I have nothing to say to her. Well, nothing she'd want to hear, anyway.  
  
"Uh…nothing. Forget about it." I plant a forced smile on my face in an effort to reassure her nothing is wrong.  
  
She looks at me for a second with an expression I cannot quite place. Smiling, she leaves. Only when I hear the lock snap back into place do I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.  
  
--  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
The door shuts behind me and I lean my head against its cool surface. Barely breathing. I am barely breathing. For a moment back inside, I had thought Vaughn was going to say something to me, something that went beyond the necessary and required. But I was mistaken. I had misinterpreted his action, the tone of his voice. I only hope he didn't hear how out of breath I was, or how my face fell slightly when he told me it was nothing. I usually hide my emotions so well.  
  
I walk over to my parked car. Sighing, I pull out of the deserted lot. Another day. Another mission. Another meeting. Another narrow escape. Breathe, I tell myself.  
  
  
  
Okay, how was that? Feedback, please! Tell me where you want me to go with this, if anywhere. -V 


	2. Imitating Life

Barely Breathing  
  
Imitating Life  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: basic stuff  
  
Pairing: some V/S  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
I pull up into the driveway of the apartment complex I share with Francie. Home, as she likes to call it. I don't know what it is to me, though. Home just doesn't seem like the right word. And I know why. But I don't like to think about my parents too much. Especially not now, not after the other day…  
  
I climb out of the car and lug my suitcase out of the trunk. The mission went smoothly. Sometimes it's scary to think of how effortlessly I do my so-called job, and then of how much it has permeated my everyday life. Just the other night, I caught myself checking for a tail while Francie and I drove to a nearby restaurant. I mean, I know I should be careful and everything, but this is edging on paranoia. And then, at the restaurant, I automatically sized up everyone we came into contact with, like I would a potential opponent. Am I losing it? I've tried so hard to keep my two lives separate, but recently it's been slowly falling apart.  
  
"Syd!" A female voice from within interrupts my thoughts.  
  
"Hey, Francie," I say, a genuine smile curving on my lips.  
  
"How was your trip? Did you have fun in Madrid?" she asks innocently, because that's what she is, innocent.  
  
"Yeah," I lie, "the city was beautiful." Well, maybe not a complete lie. Madrid has always been one of my favorite cities to visit, but this time the mission afforded me no time for casual tourism. In fact, the very word "fun" seems like a slap in the face. Fun is the one thing I am definitely not having.  
  
"Hey," she says softly, "you look tired. You want some food? We've got some leftover Chinese."  
  
I look at her gratefully. Sometimes I think she understands me completely. For that, I am thankful. It's times like these when I just need a comforting friend and not a nosy somebody. "Sure," I reply, "Chinese sound good right about now."  
  
---  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
My alarm clock goes off and I reach groggily across the bed to turn it off. I don't get up. Seven minutes later it goes off again. I hate tricky alarm clocks. In my early morning state of mind I always push the "repeat alarm" button instead of the "off" button. The "off" button is a tiny button located conveniently at the back of the clock, while the "repeat" button is five times the size and placed inconspicuously in the front.  
  
The alarm goes off again, and this time I do get up, if only to shut the stupid thing off. Which only reminds me why I bought it in the first place: because it's so tricky.  
  
I stumble into the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. Another day. Another day as an agent for the CIA. Another day as Sydney Bristow's handler. Another Monday. Another day of pure torture.  
  
Sydney's back today. Well, yesterday, but I am meeting her today to discuss the details of her next mission, which she is no doubt getting briefed on right now. Talk about stress. SD-6 didn't even give her a break this time.  
  
I jump into the shower before I have to get dressed and go to work.  
  
--  
  
A glance at my watch tells me it's one o'clock. Time to give Sydney a ring. I pick up the phone and get a secure line.  
  
"Hello?" A voice answers, and I know immediately it's her. Her voice is sweet and clear and completely neutral. I used to wonder why her roommate never picked up. Now I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Just hearing her voice can brighten my entire day.  
  
"Joey's Pizza?"  
  
"Sorry, wrong number," she recites, hanging up the phone. Odd, her voice sounded funny. Slightly excited, almost…out of breath.  
  
I grab my things and head out to the warehouse.  
  
--  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
I let out a breath as I hang up the phone. He called. Vaughn called. And now I am going to jump in my car and go meet him in a deserted warehouse. Where we'll be alone, hopelessly alone. I sigh. Get a grip.  
  
Just then the front door opens and Francie walks in with Will. They're both laughing, apparently from something Will said.  
  
"Hey, Syd," Francie calls out, noticing me by the phone, "you back from class already?"  
  
"Actually I was just leaving," I respond as I grab my keys. "I'll see you guys later."  
  
"Where to? You don't have a class until three." Will's question stops me in my tracks. There are times when I wish he wasn't so nosy. This is one of them. Since when did he know my class schedule?  
  
"I have some errands to run, if that's okay with you," I retort sarcastically. Instantly, I feel guilty as he blushes. I didn't mean for the last part to come out, because I know he just really cares about me. "Sorry," I add, with a sincere apologetic smile, "I'll be back soon."  
  
And I leave, because I have nothing more to say. Because Vaughn is waiting.  
  
  
  
Not terribly exciting, I know. The next chapter will be better, I promise. -V 


	3. Irrational Thoughts

Barely Breathing  
  
Irrational Thoughts  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: basic stuff  
  
Pairing: definite V/S, although Will has some thoughts  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Will's POV-  
  
The door slams behind her. I don't have to look to know Francie has a disapproving look on her face.  
  
"Will," she starts, and I already know what she's going to say.  
  
"I know, I know." I shake my head, refusing to meet her eyes. "Leave her alone, right?"  
  
Francie looks at me sadly, and for a second I think she knows what I'm going through. The moment passes, and she gives me a small smile. "Sydney knows how to take care of herself," she continues softly, like I am a child. I guess she doesn't understand. "I know you're just worried about her, but so am I. But I know when to let her do her own thing. Being nosy will get you nowhere, Will."  
  
She's right. I am nosy. And nosy gets me nowhere with Sydney. And "with Sydney" is where I want to be. I sigh loudly. Francie looks sympathetic.  
  
"Listen, I'm meeting Charlie for a late lunch in half an hour. You want to come?" Francie can be so sweet sometimes. She always wants the best for everyone, even me. I wonder what she would say if I told her I'm hopelessly in love with her roommate. Probably something along the lines of "Oh, I'm so sorry, Will," because she knows as well as I do that Sydney doesn't think of me that way. And I can't hate her for it. Just like I don't hate Sydney for not liking me back.  
  
"No, you go ahead. I don't want to be around when all that lovey-dovey stuff happens," I tease.  
  
Francie rolls her eyes and hits me on the shoulder. I can tell she's trying not to smile. "Whatever," she sniffs, feigning insult. But that doesn't last long as I start making kissing noises.  
  
"Will, grow up!" she manages to say through peals of laughter. I just smile.  
  
--  
  
-Francie's POV-  
  
Will smiles as I laugh at his immaturity. God bless his soul. He's so in love with Sydney that it practically radiates off of him. I know she knows it, but chooses to ignore it most of the time. I can't blame her. Will is one of her, or should I say our, best friends. We've all known each other for years. We are about as close as three people can possibly be without crossing friendship lines. Will wanting more with Sydney is dangerous, not to mention weird. Don't get me wrong, I love Will like a brother. But I'm so afraid that he'll throw away what he already has with Sydney for something out of his reach. In fact, I can already see cracks in their friendship. Sydney's more stressed than usual, and Will's more persistent and frustrated. Which is why I think he should just give her some space. Plus, what's the deal with Jenny?  
  
---  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
She's late. It usually doesn't take her more than half an hour to get here from her place. I try not to assume the worst. I pace.  
  
Suddenly I hear the door creak open. "Sydney?" I call out immediately, heading in that direction.  
  
She appears around the corner, face flushed, hair slightly tousled, clothes a little askew. My eyes widen; she's usually so neat, but now she looks flustered. "Are you okay?" I demand.  
  
"Yeah," she sighs, "I'm fine. I had some trouble getting by Will and out of the house. Then it took me ten minutes to lose a tail. Sorry I'm late."  
  
Sorry. She's sorry. She's sorry she's late. I resist the urge to grab her and kiss her senseless. I look away, trying to calm my nerves, not to mention my raging hormones. God, I feel like I'm seventeen again. Back when I was an awkward teenager with the biggest crush on Kelly Ryan, the most popular girl in school. Except this now is more than a crush. Or so according to Weiss, and I believe him. The first time I laid eyes on Sydney Bristow I knew she was going to turn my world upside-down. Boy, was I right.  
  
"So, about my counter-mission." Her voice cuts into my thoughts, and I snap back to attention. "SD-6 wants me to retrieve a book from Engle's private collection in Paris. It apparently contains codes needed to open a vault in the Caribbean containing information on the extent of Engle's drug network around the world."  
  
I nod; the CIA is familiar with Engle. "Will you be going on the mission to the Caribbean?"  
  
"Yes. If this mission is successful, Dixon and I will be leaving immediately, before Engle has a chance to realize the book is gone and alert his people in the Caribbean."  
  
"Dixon is going with you this time?" I ask warily. She nods. "The CIA wants a copy of the codes. Don't try to give SD-6 the wrong codes. We plan to get to the vault before SD-6 does, but I'll brief you on that mission when you get back."  
  
She smiles and gets up to leave.  
  
"Sydney, good luck in Paris," I say, looking into her eyes. Be safe, I want to add, come back to me in one piece.  
  
"Thanks, Vaughn," she replies with a heart-stopping smile.  
  
And something inside of me snaps. Before I realize what I am doing, I've closed the space between us. She looks at me quizzically, and my breath is coming in short gasps. I grab her roughly and stare into her shocked brown eyes for one meaningful moment before my lips come crashing down on hers in a fierce, bruising kiss.  
  
  
  
How was that? Give me some feedback before I post the next chapter. -V 


	4. Do Not

Barely Breathing  
  
Do Not  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG-13  
  
Spoilers: basic stuff  
  
Pairing: V/S  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
I am shocked at first. It isn't like Vaughn to be so bold or so reckless. But his kiss is intoxicating. His lips are soft and smooth against my own. I respond fervently. The warm wetness of his mouth elicits a low moan from me. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know this is wrong. But wrong has never felt so right.  
  
His fingers dig into my hair, pressing my head closer to him. He licks the seam of my lips with his tongue, and I open my mouth to him. Unbearable heat shoots through me like fire. My mind is numb and my knees feel weak. This is the mind-numbing, knee-weakening kind of kiss I've only read about.  
  
The kiss is good because we both know it's dangerous and it's wrong. Yet neither of us can deny the sexual tension that's been in the air the past few months, so thick I could probably cut it with a knife. But this kiss changes everything. Everything. From this point on, there is no turning back. We can't undo what is happening right now, we can't forget about it. Well, at least I can't.  
  
My head is spinning. I don't know how long we have been kissing, nor do I care. I don't want this wonderful, delicious vortex of sensations to ever end.  
  
But it has to. I haven't been kissed like this since Danny. And thinking of Danny makes me feel instantly guilty. Guilty because I know I shouldn't be this reckless. Guilty because he's dead, and I'm not. Guilty because I know better than to do this, even if Vaughn does not. Reality comes crashing down.  
  
I push Vaughn away from me with more force than I intend. He stumbles backward, confusing written on his face.  
  
--  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
The force of her push sends me flying backward. I stare back up at her, uncomprehending. A moment ago, I'd held Sydney Bristow in my arms. A moment ago, we were kissing madly like lovers, or fools, depending how you look at it. A moment ago, everything was great. But that moment is over.  
  
She's back on the other side of the room, away from me. My breath comes in quick, raspy gasps. I'm barely breathing, and struggling for air. My whole mouth feels used, but in a really good way. Her lips are swollen, and her hair is a mess. I remotely remember digging my fingers through it. She refuses to look me in the eye.  
  
I want to say something. I want to scream, I love you! But I don't. Because I know that's not what she wants to hear right now. Because I won't let myself believe or hope that's what she wants to hear, ever. The kiss was wrong. It was so unbelievably wrong. I could be fired or, worse, reassigned.  
  
I remind myself I'm her handler. And handlers do not kiss their agents. Not on the lips. Not with tongue. Handlers do not lose control. Not like this. Not ever. Handlers do not mix business with pleasure. Not in situations like these. Handlers are not reckless. Not when there are lives on the line. Handlers do not act on impulse.  
  
But then again, handlers are not in love with their agents.  
  
And that's what I am: in love. I am in love with my agent. I am in love with Sydney Bristow. And what I just did could potentially get us both killed. I need to get back on track. Pretend like nothing happened. Well, nothing big anyway.  
  
A little voice in the back of my head rejoices at the fact she kissed me back. I tell it to shut up.  
  
--  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
He's looking at me right now, a determined expression on his face. His eyes are back to their normal clear green color now. A second ago, they were a dark green-gold with…what? Lust? Love? I think it was lust. Or so I'd like myself to believe. Lust I can deal with. Love, I cannot. Not now, anyway.  
  
"Look," I say with a sigh, "what just happened was wrong. A mistake. I don't know what came over me, but it shouldn't ever happen again. Let's just say we both had a temporary lapse in judgment and leave it at that, okay?"  
  
I can't even look him in the eye anymore. Not without picturing his lips all over mine. God, this is so screwed up.  
  
He doesn't speak for a minute. When he does, I am shocked at the coldness of his voice. "Right, a temporary lapse in judgment," he repeats in a soft voice. Then he looks at me with a bitter smile on his face. His eyes are empty.  
  
--  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
She turns and leaves. Just like that. She doesn't know how much her words stung me. I know, I know. I'm a total hypocrite. I mean, I was just about to tell her the same thing. But somehow, coming from her, it's different. Coming from me, I could at least pretend to believe it was nothing. Coming from her…I had to believe her words were true. The kiss meant nothing. It should mean nothing. And she was ready to dismiss it as such. I know I'm in love with her. But what if she doesn't feel the same way towards me? What if she thinks it's just lust? Or stress?  
  
Frustrated, I kick the nearest thing. The crate goes flying across the floor, hitting the cage with a loud crash. I won't see her again until she gets back on Thursday. And for some reason, I get the distinct feeling I just screwed everything up.  
  
  
  
It's back to lusty looks between these two. Even though they both realize their feelings, there's still a long ways to go. The number of reviews I get is inversely proportional to the time it takes me to update (hint, hint).  
  
-V 


	5. Cold Fingers

Barely Breathing  
  
Cold Fingers  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: basic stuff  
  
Pairing: V/S; Vaughn takes a trip down memory lane  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
The airport is crowded. I scan the crowd for Dixon. He is nowhere in sight, and our flight leaves in twenty minutes. I wonder what else can go wrong today. Today reminded me of why I've always hated Mondays.  
  
Sighing, I take a seat near the boarding gate. I don't know if I should call Dixon or what. He usually arrives before me when we go on missions; I have never known him to be late. The intercom comes on. Last boarding call. I don't know what to do. Glancing around, I don't see him in sight.  
  
I pull out the phone SD-6 gave me. Use only in emergency situations. I don't know if this is an emergency situation or not, but Dixon is never late. He always shows up. I dial a number that connects me to the SD-6 main server.  
  
"Identification, please."  
  
"Jones, Kate," I state, almost without thinking. Funny, how the name just seems to roll of my tongue.  
  
"One moment."  
  
Tapping my foot impatiently, I watch as the last few passengers board the flight.  
  
"You are now being connected. Please hold."  
  
A moment later Sloane comes on the line. "Sydney?" he asks, concern filling his voice.  
  
"Sloane! I'm at the airport; Dixon hasn't shown up. The flight is leaving…."  
  
He interrupts me. "Get on the plane. Call again when you land in Paris." The click at other end tells me he's hung up without waiting for a reply. I let out a frustrated breath before jogging toward the boarding gate. Giving the flight attendant a warm smile, I hand her my boarding pass and get on the plane.  
  
--  
  
"Ma'am, ma'am? Please return your seat to its upright position. We are getting ready to land." I open my eyes slowly, my sluggish brain having difficulty processing the words. The flight attendant is looking down at me. She has a motherly smile on her face.  
  
"Yeah, okay," I manage to say before an enormous yawn prevents me from uttering anything coherent. "Thanks."  
  
---  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
Six o'clock. I grab my jacket and keys and head down to my car. Time to go home. Home to a now empty apartment I used to share with Alice. The girl who I thought I had loved. The girl who packed up her things and left the day she found out I wasn't in love with her anymore. It wasn't something I had said. It was more the sum of all the things I had done. We were growing apart. I regularly missed dinner dates because of "work." I left at odd hours during the day and at night for no explainable reason. I neglected her. And it added up. It added up to me coming home after an exhausting day at "work," only to find that she was packed and ready to leave. No words were spoken. Our huge fight the week before had worn out all channels of communication.  
  
She refused to look me in the eye. Her expression was stoic, but sad. I could tell she was trying not to cry.  
  
"I hope she's worth it," she said, so softly I almost missed her words.  
  
My eyebrows shot up. My mouth fell open. "What, what are you talking about?" I whispered, because the fear in my throat made it hard to breathe.  
  
She pushed her honey-blond hair beyond her ear, looking up to meet my frightened gaze.  
  
"The girl you're in love with." Tears stared trickling down her cheek. She pushed them away almost angrily. "I hope she's worth it." With one last bitter smile, she walked out of my life, slamming the door behind her, leaving me standing in the middle of my half-empty apartment staring at the place she had stood only a minute before.  
  
Alice. Sweet Alice. Sweet Alice who knew all along. I smile at the memory.  
  
---  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
I hang up the phone with Sloane. Dixon is nowhere to be found. However, I am to continue with the mission alone, which is perfectly fine by me. I hope Dixon is all right.  
  
I crawl under covers of my queen-sized bed. The sounds of Paris at night float through my open window. I imagine lovers strolling hand-in-hand down the broad boulevards, staring deep into one another's eyes, speaking endearing words, sharing private moments of romance. It's early, yet. The sky is tinted with the fading hues of a brilliant sunset. Rosy fingers extend outward from a ring of glowing fire. Paris is the most beautiful at nightfall. Lights come on all around the city, doting the dimming horizon with thousands of tiny, glimmering lights, like fireflies.  
  
I think of Danny. I think of Vaughn. I think of my mission tomorrow. I think about my life. Tomorrow I will not be Sydney Bristow, double agent, graduate student, all-American girl. Tomorrow I will be Sonia Clozier, book collector, wealthy heiress, a Frenchwoman looking at Engle's private collection with promises of purchase.  
  
But tonight I am just Sydney. Sydney, who is tired of dreaming of a life she knows she cannot have, yet. I close my eyes, willing sleep to overtake me and carry me away.  
  
  
  
What has happened to Dixon? What will happen between Sydney and Vaughn? Review and find out! -V 


	6. From Russia, Part I

Barely Breathing  
  
From Russia, Part I  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: basic stuff  
  
Pairing: V/S, but not so much in this chapter  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
Tuesday. I wake up and instantly know that I will need two cups of coffee today instead of one. Memories of yesterday slam into me. Monday. Yesterday was the Mother of all Mondays. Yesterday was the Monday I kissed Sydney Bristow, on the lips. Yesterday was the Monday she kissed me back. Yesterday was the Monday I ruined everything. Which reminds me I have extra coffee to make.  
  
What will I saw to her when I see her on Thursday? What can I say? I'm sorry? You're right? It was a mistake? But then I would be flat-out lying. I would be lying through my teeth, lying to her face. Because the truth is, I'm not sorry I kissed her. I'm not sorry I finally acted on months and months of lingering looks flung back and forth, caught in an endless cycle.  
  
Okay, I admit, my timing wasn't the greatest. But the opportunity presented itself. And I took it. I took it in both hands and held on tight, because I knew I was going to get the ride of my life.  
  
The water is slowly turning cold; I don't know how long I've been lost in my thoughts in the shower. Reluctantly, I turn the water off. I step out and get dressed for another day at work.  
  
---  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
The ringing of a telephone disrupts my slumber, not to mention the delightful dream I am having of Vaughn. I groan out loud and turn over before finally surrendering to the persistence of the person on the line.  
  
"Hello?" I ask groggily, trying to suppress a yawn.  
  
"Ms. Jones, this is your six o'clock wake up call. Are you awake?"  
  
Are you awake? What kind of question is that? I'm talking to you on the phone, aren't I? I flop back onto the bed, already knowing it's going to be a long day.  
  
--  
  
I drive up the steep road leading to Engle's villa, one of several located around the world.  
  
Rounding a bend in the road, I am met with huge iron gates. I pull up to the intercom system. The blinking camera turns toward me. A voice comes on. They already know I'm here.  
  
"May I help you?" It's a male voice.  
  
"Oui, tell Monsieur Engle that Mademoiselle Clozier is here to see his collection. Sonia Clozier."  
  
The next second, the gates swing open. I let out a small sigh of relief.  
  
--  
  
I walk into the lobby, feeling tense and strung tight like a spring. Instinctively, I smooth out the tight, white dress that fits me like a second skin. The silk material is so sheer I can feel the smallest breath through the fabric. I have on a short blond wig, cut in a fashionable European style. On my shoulder is a chic white bag bearing the name of an expensive French designer.  
  
A handsome man comes up to greet me. I give him my most dazzling smile. He's young, and he smiles hesitantly in return. He's probably wondering if it is unprofessional to flirt with a client. A beautiful client. A beautiful, wealthy client. Obviously not, as his small grin blossoms into a huge smile, complete with straights rows of bleached white teeth. This seems almost too easy.  
  
"Mademoiselle Clozier? I am Jean-Claude; I will be your guide today."  
  
"Oui, mais where is Monsieur Engle?" I ask with a thick accent. "I was told that he would be here." I know perfectly well Engle is somewhere in the jungles of South America, but I feign ignorance. Engle does not know SD-6 gained knowledge of the location of the codes, which is probably why this villa is not heavily guarded. Engle likes his books, but there is nothing he can't replace here with the millions he is making a week.  
  
Jean-Claude looks sheepish. "Monsieur Engle is currently out of the country," he says in flawless English. "But I would be delighted to show you around."  
  
I throw him a smile, which he positively laps up. "D'accord. We must start; I have an important appointment at noon." I punctuate my sentence by pulling out my white compact and staring at my reflection for a full minute. I pout my full lips seductively while touching my shock of blond hair. Snapping the compact closed, I turn and give clueless Jean-Claude a playful wink. "Lead, I will follow."  
  
He blushes to the tips of his ears. I resist the urge to laugh out loud. Instead, I follow him as he leads me up a winding staircase and into an enormous, three-story room. Shelves line the walls, extending from the floor to the ceiling. A huge, crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the room. There must be thousands of books in here.  
  
"Excusez-moi," I interrupt just as Jean-Claude opens his mouth to speak. "Where is the little girl's room?"  
  
He looks stunned for a moment, but quickly recovers. "Uh…oui, I will show you."  
  
He leads me back down the staircase to a room on the right. Then he bows and exits, leaving me alone in a bathroom the size of my bedroom in Los Angeles. I lock the door behind me. Rushing to the sink, I bend down and attach a small explosive device to the wall covering the pipes. I set the timer to five minutes. I rush over to flush the toilet, and then proceed to wash my hands. Seconds later, I walk out of door, only to be greeted by a blushing Jean-Claude.  
  
"Shall we?" I ask, giving him a sly smirk. 


	7. From Russia, Part II

Barely Breathing  
  
From Russia, Part II  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: basic stuff  
  
Pairing: V/S, although this part is more adventure than romance  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
For two minutes Jean-Claude tells me all about Engle's private book collection. I act interested, and he seems to believe my fake enthusiasm. Knowing the explosive will go off soon, I pull out my reading glasses from my bag. I tell Jean-Claude I will have a look around now. He consents and retreats to one of the couches in the centre of the room.  
  
I put my reading glasses on. The lenses are tinted a very pale blue, hardly noticeable at a casual glance. These are no ordinary reading glasses. In fact, they are Marshall's newest invention, given to me at my last briefing. The codes are hidden inside a fake book with space for a secret compartment. Sifting through Engle's entire collection is hardly a practical option. These glasses provide me with a certain x-ray vision: I will literally be able to see through the books, and be able to tell if they are solid or not.  
  
I climb onto the wooden ladder and start methodically scanning the room. So far, all the books look the same. I climb higher to get a better view of the room. Meanwhile, I shift uncomfortably at the thought of Jean- Claude getting a better view. Up my skirt, that is.  
  
Thirty seconds before the explosion is set to go off, I detect the hollow book from across the room. As casually as possible, I slide my ladder down the wall and across to the other side. Chances are Jean-Claude does not know that Engle has codes stored here. Engle's motto has always been the less you know, the better. Which is why he is such an elusive criminal. None of his captured goons ever know anything because they are all on a need to know basis.  
  
My entire body is stiff in anticipation as I reach out for the book. Crime and Punishment. How ironic. The book is well worn and in decrepit condition. No book dealer in his or her right mind would ever consider buying such a piece of trash, although the novel itself is a classic.  
  
My guide says nothing. Suddenly a loud thud comes from downstairs. Jean- Claude leaps up at the sound.  
  
"Mademoiselle Clozier, wait here please," he says before rushing from the room.  
  
His absence gives me the opportunity to grab the book, open it, take out the codes, and replace it without any incident. I keep my back to the camera across the room. To a casual observer, it only looks like I'm carefully studying the contents of the book. I slip the codes down the front of my dress into my bra. The security tapes are reviewed once every week on Friday. Today is Tuesday. By Friday, I will already be in the Caribbean, thousands of miles from here.  
  
I slide down the wall just as Jean-Claude walks back into the room. I plant what I hope is a natural expression on my face. I look up, as if just noticing his presence.  
  
"Is there a problème?" I question innocently, raising an eyebrow.  
  
He looks flustered, but he doesn't suspect me in the least. "Oui," he frowns, "a pipe burst in the downstairs bathroom. I shall have to get it fixed before Monsieur Engle returns."  
  
I lower my head to hide a smile. Now all I need to do is to get out of this villa and back to my hotel room. I look at my white gold watch in an exaggerated motion. "Ah non!" I exclaim dramatically, bring a hand to my red, open mouth. "I must leave at once for my appointment."  
  
Looking up at Jean-Claude, I give him an apologetic smile. "I'm very sorry. Excusez-moi." Inside, I am prematurely rejoicing at the success of the mission. Tonight I will fly back to Los Angeles, where I will be able to relax in a hot bubble bath, chat with Francie, and get some real rest. The jet lag has left me consistently exhausted, although my make-up hides the evidence well.  
  
Jean-Claude offers me his hand as I step down from the ladder. "Merci," I say, "please tell Monsieur Engle I will be in contact shortly. Some of his books greatly interest me."  
  
Jean-Claude acknowledges my request with a small nod. He gestures with his hand, and I follow him as he shows me the way out. At the door, he pauses for a moment and looks at me like he has something to say.  
  
"I was wondering if you would like to join me at the opera tomorrow evening," he murmurs, looking at his feet. "I have two tickets, front row, centre."  
  
I cough to cover the giggle that escapes my pursed lips. I do believe Jean- Claude is asking me out. Somehow, the prospect seems hilarious, if not downright ironic.  
  
My blushing guide seems aware of my silence. He hurries to add, "Courtesy of Monsieur Engle, of course." Right. I feel genuinely sorry for the young man. I am not who he thinks I am. Deception has always been a part of my life, but I have never enjoyed its presence. I end up hurting innocent people even when I try my best not to. This here is a perfect example.  
  
I look him in the eye with a beguiling smile on my bright red lips. "Of course," I repeat playfully, "but Monsieur Engle will not be joining us, I presume?"  
  
Jean-Claude averts his eyes from my piercing glance. He knows I will say no. So I do not say it for him. Instead, I offer him a tiny bow before waltzing out of the villa on my three-inch white stilettos, the codes in my dress.  
  
---  
  
Stepping out of the luxurious, steaming bath Francie drew for me, I grab my green silk robe and wrap it around my wrinkled body. I stand in front of the vanity mirror, wiping away a small patch of condensation in order to better see my reflection.  
  
Gone now are the chic clothes of Sonia Clozier. The tight, white dress is sitting in a dumpster somewhere in downtown Paris. The white handbag is buried somewhere in my yet unpacked suitcase. The expensive jewelry is on its way back to a contact in France. The three-inch white stilettos are discarded for shoes far more comfortable. My long, brown hair is freshly washed; the blond wig left as a surprise in my Paris hotel room.  
  
I am once again Sydney Bristow. 


	8. From Russia, Part III

Barely Breathing  
  
From Russia, Part III  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: minimal, basic stuff  
  
Pairing: V/S  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
-Francie's POV-  
  
I push Sydney's bedroom door open with the pad of my index finger. I create an opening just big enough so I can slip in. Her room is awash in bright sunlight that strains through the thin curtains and spills onto her bed. She lies motionless, the covers twisted around her body like a cocoon. It's noon. If she doesn't wake up soon, she'll miss her meeting with her English adviser.  
  
I tap her bare shoulder softly. "Syd?" I whisper.  
  
There is no movement. Her breathing remains steady and deep. "Syd?" I repeat, a little louder this time. Gaining no response, I shake her shoulders gently.  
  
"Hmmm?" She turns a little toward my voice.  
  
"Syd, you need to get up now." I really hate to wake her up, especially after how tired she looked returning from her trip last night, but I have no choice. I can't let her miss class. She's missed too much already.  
  
"Francie?" she asks dreamily, her lips turning up slightly at the corners.  
  
"Yeah, sweetie, it's me. Look, you really need to get up now. It's Thursday, so you have to go to class. No time to sleep in now."  
  
Sydney suddenly snaps awake, her eyes wide and alert. "What time is it now?" she demands, startling me with her panicky tone of voice.  
  
"Ten to noon. Why?" I get no reply, as Sydney leaps from the bed and hurries into the bathroom we share. "Syd? Is everything okay?"  
  
Seeing my worried look, she shoots me a quick smile while furiously brushing her teeth. She spits. "Fine," she states, in between gargles. "I'm just late for a meeting, that's all."  
  
A meeting? She never said anything about a meeting last night. All I know is that she has a class today at one thirty. Thoroughly confused, I ask, "Wait, what meeting? You didn't say anything about it last night."  
  
"I forgot. Did anyone call, by the way?" She looks at me in the mirror with a questioningly glance, all the while brushing her tangled hair. I marvel at the way she can get herself together in a matter of minutes. It takes me at least forty-five minutes to get ready. Sydney can clean herself up in less than ten minutes and still look stunning. She really amazes me sometimes.  
  
"Uh, I don't think so," I frown, thinking back to earlier this morning. "Oh, wait! There was another wrong number. I swear, Syd, we need to get this number changed…"  
  
But before I can even begin my tirade on the ridiculous number of wrong numbers we've been getting recently, Sydney interrupts me.  
  
"Who did they want?"  
  
"What?" I am taken back by her question. Since when did she care about wrong numbers? Something is up. Her strained look is starting to seriously trouble me. Something isn't right; I can smell her anxiety coming off in waves.  
  
"Did the caller ask for anyone?" Not wanting for my reply, she continues, "Who?"  
  
"Joey's Pizza, I think." I stare at her with a curious expression, waiting for her to explain this little outburst over a wrong number. She ignores my unspoken question. In fact, she rushes out of the bathroom, flings open her closet, and grabs a pair of jeans and a red shirt. Tossing them on the bed, she strips down to her underwear, completely disregarding my presence in the room.  
  
"Syd, what's up?" My voice is fraught with worry mixed with a bit of panic. "Tell me what's going on."  
  
"Nothing." Her response comes out muffled through the shirt she is struggling to put on. Her head pops out, and I stare at her with my arms crossed, a disbelieving look on my face.  
  
"Nothing, I swear," she repeats. I do not move, and she sighs at length. "Listen, Francie, I really need to go. Don't worry about me, okay? I'll be back by three." She gives me a quick hug, grabs her keys from the counter, and disappears from the room. A moment later I hear the front door slam. I cringe. Something is wrong; Sydney never slams the door.  
  
--  
  
-Will's POV-  
  
I am just about to ring the doorbell when the door is flung open and Sydney burst out. She runs into me, and I stumble backward. "Whoa, there!" I manage to exclaim before she pulls me upright.  
  
"Will!" She looks surprised to see me. I give her a warm smile. Maybe she'll have lunch with me today. But just as I am about to ask, she brushes past me.  
  
"Sydney, wait!" I call after her, jogging to catch up. "Where are you going? Have you had lunch?" She doesn't respond. I don't understand what she's doing. She doesn't have anything scheduled until one thirty. The reporter in me connects this incident with the one on Monday, when Sydney rushed out without saying where she was going or whom she was going to meet. My suspicions immediately aroused, I decide to follow her in my car.  
  
She peels out of the driveway, tires screeching against the protesting concrete. I cringe. Running to my car, I know something is up. Something may even be wrong. Sydney never screeches her tires.  
  
  
  
There will be more angst/romance from this point on, combined with some action/adventure when Sydney goes on missions. Feedback, please!  
  
-V 


	9. With Love, Part I

Barely Breathing  
  
With Love, Part I  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: a world of what ifs  
  
Pairing: V/S, Vaughn does some venting  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
Author's Note (wow, my first ever): With Love, Part II will be up by Friday. After that, there won't be another update until February 18th, when I get back from Boston. I usually write at least two chapters ahead of time but, as of this moment, I haven't even finished chapter 10! I've been trying to update every day or, at least, every couple of days, but school is really busy for me this year. Slacking off makes me feel guilty, even though everyone's doing it. Well, enough babble, I hope you enjoy this chapter and the next one!  
  
*J*: No, that doesn't sound rude, it's just I have this two page per chapter thing going and I kind of like it. Plus, I want to make sure you all keep reading! ^_^  
  
-Vaughn's POV-  
  
It's only ten o'clock and my fingers are already itching to dial her number. Sydney is back today. Our meeting is scheduled for eleven. Funny, how I waited for three long days to see her again, and now I can't even wait an hour. One measly hour. I know. It's pathetic. Ever since Monday I've become this giant, useless blob of human flesh that slinks around the office, ignoring coworkers and constantly in a mindless stupor. Weiss, when he does manage to get through to me, says I'm in a funk. What does he know? Certainly not that today will be the first time I've seen Sydney since our lips last met in a hot, passionate embrace? No, he doesn't know that. How could he? I had no urge to tell him, to confirm his suspicions.  
  
Growling softly, I push back from my desk. This building, this room, is suffocating. I think I am going out of my mind. The thick air is infused with a heady mixture of paper, plastic, and flesh. I find it difficult to breathe.  
  
I glance at the clock. Three minutes have passed. Three measly minutes. I can't believe it. I will never survive the next fifty-seven minutes. Not here, not like this. Grabbing my keys, I storm out of the office, slamming my door loudly. People stare at me, but I no longer care what they think. They have been staring all week. It's almost like they know something is up. Something is wrong with me. And they are right. I am in love with a woman I cannot have. Not now, and maybe not ever. But that's my business.  
  
Come to think of it, they probably don't even care.  
  
--  
  
She's late, again. Only this time, it's by almost an hour. I called her at eleven thirty, but her roommate answered. I won't call again for at least an hour. Any less time and her roommate might get suspicious.  
  
For three consecutive nights I dreamed of her. She came to me in my sleep, and we talked about things we would never dare approach during waking hours. We did stuff, too. I took her to the movies, where we shared popcorn and she laughed at my corny jokes. We dined at fancy restaurants and played countless holes of miniature golf. We went swimming at the lake and ate our lunches sitting on the soft, green grass under a huge, maple tree. She called me Michael. We kissed a lot.  
  
For once, ours was a world free of obligations and responsibilities. She could gaze into my eyes and read all that I felt for her. There would be no danger in that. There would be no shielding, no lies. I could whisper sweet nothings into her ear without fear of someone hearing, or caring. Our fingers could intertwine, her smooth, agile fingers tangling with my own. There would be no thought of someone seeing, or looking.  
  
There would be no more sneaking furtive looks at one another from across the room, no more yearning glances and unspoken promises. Promises that we know cannot be kept.  
  
I wonder if I will dream of her tonight. Never before have I wanted so much to escape reality. The bitterness inside of me threatens to poison my mind and my entire being. I need her so much now. That first kiss was a taste of something sweet and divine and powerfully addictive. Can you have withdrawal symptoms from a kiss?  
  
Something small and wet slides down my cheek, and I realize I am silently weeping. For what? I push the tear away angrily. I will not cry. It does nothing to ease the pain, especially not the dull ache in my heart.  
  
I don't know why I am so emotional. Even when I was a kid, and my father died, I did not cry. A few tears here and there when I scraped my knee or bumped my head, maybe, but always from physical pain. Physical pain goes away after a while. I eventually reach a state of mind where I am completely detached from the source of discomfort. I become indifferent to all feeling.  
  
But this kind of pain, emotional pain, is unlike anything I have ever encountered. When Alice left me, I did not cry. I did not scream, or pout, or beg her to stay. Yes, I had fought with her the week before, but the words exchanged had no tenderness behind them on my part, only anger and the deepest frustration. Frustration because she did not understand. She could not understand. I had never let her.  
  
There was a void in me after she left. But it was hardly anything akin to pain.  
  
--  
  
I stare glumly at a spot on the concrete floor. Outside, I am cool and composed, the ever-professional CIA handler. Inside, I am a total wreck of twisted emotions and scattered thoughts.  
  
Oh, Sydney, why can't you understand how I feel? If you asked, I would give up my entire world for you. I don't even have to think about it. I won't hesitate, because I know I will do it the moment the words leave your supple lips. But you don't ask. And that's what hurts me the most.  
  
I can't hate you for it. You're probably scared. But don't they say that love makes you bold? It has made me bold. Bold enough to reach out and finally touch those lips I've spent hours thinking about, hours dreaming about. Sometimes I can't sleep at night, my mind occupied by thoughts of you, so it cannot rest. You are so unbelievably brave. I admire your strength, your versatility, your intense beauty, your sharp intelligence, and your loving nature. You have lost so much, been lied to and deceived so many times that your warm demeanor amazes me. Your ability to love remains boundless still. I can see all that. Do you realize?  
  
My entire body trembles at the thought of your absence in my life. It trembles much as a fallen leaf trembles from the wind and the cold. My life before you walked into my office, flaming red hair and all, seems so distant now. I am intricately tied to you by millions of minute connections. Every time we talk, I learn something new about you, and that information strengthens our invisible bond. It does not break. It will not break. I would rather die before that happens.  
  
The depth of my feelings surprises me all the time. Would I die for you? The answer is a resolute yes. I am surprised, but I realize it is true. Yet love alone is not enough. Our circumstances divide us, perhaps definitely. Our actions, even our thoughts, are perilous.  
  
I lock up my turbulent emotions. I am Vaughn again. Michael remains a dream. 


	10. With Love, Part II

Barely Breathing  
  
With Love, Part II  
  
© 2002  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Spoilers: more what ifs  
  
Pairing: V/S, it's Sydney's turn to vent  
  
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me.  
  
Author's Note: Hello to everyone reading this story. If you read the last chapter, you probably know that I wasn't planning on posting this one until Friday. However, I felt especially prolific today, so I finished Chapter 10 early, and it's posted! Aren't you glad I lied yesterday? Oh, and this chapter is slightly longer. ^_^  
  
Feedback would be so greatly appreciated. It's what keeps me writing! Enjoy!  
  
-Sydney's POV-  
  
I know driving this fast is dangerous, not to mention illegal. But I don't care right now. My meeting with Vaughn was supposed to be one hour ago. I wasn't there; I was home, blissfully unconscious in my soft bed. And now I'm speeding now the streets of Los Angeles, hoping, praying, that he's still at the warehouse.  
  
I turn a sharp right. The car clock blinks 12:05.  
  
Don't panic, I tell myself. Getting a speeding ticket will definitely not help the current situation.  
  
The light ahead turns yellow. I jam the accelerator down hard with my foot, beating the red light just in time. I don't look back. The clock reads 12:07.  
  
--  
  
The warehouse is a twenty-minute drive, thirty tops in heavy traffic. I imagine Vaughn sitting on a crate in the cage, flipping through papers or reading a book. He's the patient kind. I see him in a white, starched shirt with a standard brown tie. His long legs, enclosed in brown slacks, are crossed at the ankles. He swings them impatiently, the only indication of inner turmoil encased in a calm, collected exterior. His jacket is off, slung carelessly over a crate in the corner.  
  
I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder if he looks up from time to time, looks up from what he's reading or doing. I wonder if he looks at his watch. I wonder if he sighs. I wonder if he paces. I wonder if he worries. I wonder if he cares.  
  
Of course he cares. I've always known that.  
  
But what will I say to him when I see him? I've already told him, quite forcefully, that the kiss was a mistake, one that can never be repeated. Is there anything else I can possibly say? Do we just casually revert back to our pre-kiss selves? I don't know if I can just walk in there, hand him the codes, sit and talk about my next mission, and then walk out like nothing has changed. In fact, I know I can't. So why pretend?  
  
Because that's what I do: I pretend. It's my job to deceive and, disgustingly enough, I've actually grown used to it. It's too easy to lie, to make up some random story to explain any and every circumstance. I do it everyday to the people I love. And it's so ironic because I do it to protect them, not to hurt them like people usually think.  
  
Okay, so maybe I'm trying to justify my actions just a little bit. But it's the God honest truth. I don't mean to hurt them. In fact, it's just the opposite. And that's not an excuse.  
  
I'm trying to protect Vaughn. I'm trying to protect myself. I'm trying to protect the ones I love. Those are the reasons a relationship with my handler would never work. I'd be going against everything I've worked so hard to accomplish. No part of me can ever accept that, not even my heart.  
  
--  
  
It's 12:15. Traffic is agonizingly slow. The air conditioning is turned up on high because the heat outside is oppressive. The air is so sickly sweet. The soft, jazzy music flowing from my car speakers does nothing to assuage my frustration.  
  
Maybe I should call. But what would that do? What would I say? I'm on my way? He probably knows that already. The bottom line is, I must see him today. He must brief me on my counter-mission before I leave for the Caribbean early tomorrow morning. They still don't know where Dixon is, and I'm so worried. What could have happened to him? It's like he just disappeared.  
  
No SD-6 briefing this time. Sloane is coming with me on the mission. I can't risk not having backup. This gig is that important. Which is why I suspect Sloane is seeing it through personally. He's never done anything like this before. I don't think he's been on a field mission for over ten years.  
  
If everything runs smoothly, I will have the information within a few hours of my arrival. I might even fly back the same day. A break would be nice for a change. I could seriously use a vacation for once.  
  
But I know the mission will not run smoothly. The CIA will make sure of that. With the codes I give Vaughn today, CIA will have already accessed the vault by the time Sloane and I get there. SD-6 will get nothing. Well, maybe a useless scrap of paper or two, but certainly nothing worth knowing. Sloane will be mad, for sure, but my hands will be unmistakably clean. Spotless.  
  
--  
  
Three blocks from the warehouse, I notice the tail. Shit. The word escapes before I can even think. I've been too distracted to look for tails. Grimacing, I shake my head; I've been trained better than to do this.  
  
The car is a rather dirty green color. Whoever it is follows closely and aggressively. I squint at my rearview mirror, trying to make out a face in the dark, foggy image. I can tell the driver is a man, one who is obviously inexperienced in the art of following people. In fact, he makes no attempt to conceal the fact he is tailing me almost bumper to bumper.  
  
The inexperience throws me. No SD-6 agent in his right mind would follow so closely. K-Directorate would never be so careless, much less reckless. The CIA has no one tagging me; I'm on their side, after all. Besides, Vaughn can have me any time he wants, no use following me around the crowded city. Wait...did I just think that? Okay, bad choice of words. What I really meant to think is: Vaughn can meet with me anytime he likes, and he knows I'm entirely on his side. No. Correction. I'm on the CIA's side.  
  
Either the driver isn't an agent of any kind, or he wants me to notice him. He wants me to notice because he's after me, and not information on where I'm going or whom I'm going to meet. Which makes the situation ten times worse.  
  
I figure a confrontation now would be better than one later. I'm driving down a fairly busy street in a residential neighborhood. It's a hot, hazy Thursday, and sidewalk is dotted every several feet with either a dog or a child. A noisy conglomeration surrounds the ice cream truck parked down the street. A commotion here would not go unnoticed. I slow my car and pull up next to the sidewalk. The car behind me does the same. I mentally brace myself for the ensuing confrontation. A car door slams, and I flinch slightly. But I don't turn around. Instead, I direct a steady gaze forward, out the windshield. I wait. 


End file.
